Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Mila
The problem with a kiss that destroys your entire worldview is that life, rudely, continues to happen afterward.
Classes don't get cancelled. The sun doesn't refuse to rise out of solidarity with your internal crisis. The world just keeps spinning, indifferent to the fact that your nervous system has been completely rewired by a Russian hockey player in a grey living room.
I sat in Art History 401: The Architecture of Power, staring at the projection of Versailles on the screen at the front of the lecture hall.
Professor Halloway was droning on about Louis XIV and the manipulation of space to assert dominance.
“Note the Hall of Mirrors,” Halloway said, his voice dry as dust. “It was designed to overwhelm the senses. To make the visitor feel small, infinite, and constantly observed. It was a theater of control.”
I tapped my pen against my notebook. Thap. Thap. Thap.
Theater of control.
My mind didn't stay in 17th-century France. It snapped back to 12 hours ago. To the concrete wall of the kitchen. To the way Theo had pinned me there, using his size not to threaten, but to encompass.
I touched my lip. It was still tender. I had spent twenty minutes this morning layering concealer over the slightly swollen curve of my lower lip, terrified that if I walked outside, everyone would see it. They would see the brand. Property of The Tsar.
“Ms. Kensington?”
I jolted, my pen skittering across the desk.
Professor Halloway was looking at me over his spectacles. The entire lecture hall—a sea of hoodies and laptops—turned to look at the girl in the third row wearing oversized sunglasses indoors.
“I’m sorry?” I squeaked.
“I asked if you could identify the primary function of the King’s bedchamber in the context of the public court,” Halloway said, his tone bored but expectant.
I swallowed hard. My brain was a fog of sandalwood scent and the memory of large hands on my waist.
“Um,” I started, my voice clearing. I knew this.
I knew this. I loved this stuff. “The… the bedchamber wasn't private. It was a stage. The Levée and the Couchée—the waking up and going to sleep ceremonies—were public acts. Access to the King’s body was the highest currency in the court. Proximity equaled power.”
Halloway blinked, surprised. “Correct. Proximity to the source of power is the defining metric of status. Very good.”
He turned back to the screen.
I slumped in my seat, my heart hammering.
Proximity to power.
I looked down at my phone, which was vibrating in my lap. A text from Theo.
The Tsar (10:15 AM): Lunch at The Trough. 1200 hours. Don't be late. Bring your protein intake log.
I stared at the screen. It was so clinical. So bossy. So… Theo.
But now, reading the words, I didn't just hear his grumpy captain voice. I heard the rough whisper against my ear. I don't want to put you on a shelf, Malyshka.
I typed back, my fingers flying.
Me: I’m not a golden retriever, Theo. I don't respond to commands.
Three dots appeared instantly.
The Tsar: You responded last night.
I dropped the phone like it was hot coal. It clattered onto the desk, loud in the quiet room. The girl next to me gave me a dirty look.
My face burned. I could feel the heat rising up my neck, scorching my cheeks. He was insufferable. He was arrogant. He was… right.
I hadn't just responded. I had ignited.
And that was the secret I was carrying around campus like a grenade in my designer handbag. The world saw Theo Volkov as the stoic, terrifying machine. The impenetrable wall.
But I knew the truth. I knew that under the ice, there was a fire that could burn a city down. I knew that he wasn't made of stone; he was made of restraint. And last night, I had felt that restraint snap.
It terrified me. And God help me, I wanted to do it again.
Walking across the Blackthorne campus usually felt like a runway show. I walked with my head high, my armor of cashmere and leather firmly in place, daring anyone to make a comment about my father’s money or my latest scandal.
Today, it felt like a gauntlet.
The snow was falling in thick, lazy flakes, muting the sound of the world. I pulled my coat tighter—a camel hair trench that cost more than most people’s tuition—and trudged toward the Athlete’s Dining Hall, affectionately known as "The Trough."
"Whoa there, speedy. Where’s the fire?"
A hand caught my elbow. I jumped, nearly slipping on a patch of ice.
Jax Sinclair was grinning down at me. He was wearing a neon orange beanie and a parka that looked three sizes too big. He looked like a very dangerous traffic cone.
"Jax," I breathed, steadying myself on his arm. "Don't sneak up on people. I carry pepper spray."
"You carry Chanel," Jax corrected, falling into step beside me. "And you look… jumpy. Everything okay at the Fortress of Solitude? Did Theo make you reorganize the spice rack alphabetically again?"
"Chronologically," I muttered. "By expiration date. He’s a psychopath."
Jax laughed, a loud, barking sound that drew eyes. "Yeah, he’s a piece of work. But you’re surviving. I haven't seen a 'Missing Person' flyer yet."
He bumped my shoulder with his. "Seriously though. How is it? Living with him? He’s been… different at practice the last few days."
My stomach flipped. "Different how?"
"Distracted," Jax said, his eyes narrowing slightly, losing the joker facade for a second. "He missed a check yesterday. Theo never misses a check. And he keeps checking his phone during water breaks. The man usually leaves his phone in his locker."
Jax stopped walking. We were outside the glass doors of the dining hall. He turned to face me, his expression curious.
"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Princess?"
"I’m his roommate, Jax," I lied, forcing a scoff. "Not his keeper. Maybe he’s stressed about the draft. Or maybe he’s finally realized that his personality is a liability and he’s googling 'how to be human.'"
Jax studied me. He looked at my face, then lower, toward my neck. I adjusted my scarf instinctively.
"Right," Jax drawled, a slow smirk spreading across his face. He didn't believe me. Not for a second. "Well, let’s go feed the beast. If he doesn't get his three chickens worth of protein by noon, he starts eating freshmen."
He held the door open for me.
The Trough was a sensory assault. It smelled of industrial steamer trays, grilled meat, and Gatorade. It was loud—clattering trays, shouting voices, the sheer volume of three hundred Division I athletes occupying one space.
It was a hierarchy. The football team held the center tables. Basketball took the high-tops near the windows. And Hockey… Hockey owned the corner booth in the back, the one with the best vantage point of the entire room.
I saw him immediately.
He was sitting with his back to the wall (obviously). He was wearing a black Blackthorne Hockey hoodie, the hood down, his dark hair slightly messy from a morning skate. He was staring at his phone, his brow furrowed, nursing a shaker bottle of something that looked like sludge.
The air in the room seemed to bend toward him.
"Go get your gruel," Jax said, slapping me on the back. "I’ll save you a seat next to Sunshine."
I went to the salad bar, my hands trembling slightly as I picked up the tongs. I wasn't hungry. My stomach was a knot of anxiety. I grabbed some spinach and a few cherry tomatoes, just to have a prop.
I walked toward the table.
As I got closer, Theo looked up.
The moment our eyes met, the noise of the cafeteria faded into a dull roar. It was just the grey gaze, locking onto mine with the precision of a sniper scope.
He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He just… watched. He tracked my movement across the floor, his eyes dropping to my boots, then up my legs, lingering on the coat, and finally settling on my mouth.
I felt a phantom pressure on my lips. A heat flared low in my belly, sudden and sharp.
I reached the table and slid onto the bench next to him. Not opposite him. Next to him.
"You’re four minutes late," Theo said. He didn't look at me; he looked at my tray. "And that is not lunch. That is a garnish."
"I’m not hungry," I said, unwinding my scarf.
"Eat," he commanded. He slid his own tray toward me. It was piled high with grilled chicken and brown rice. "You need fuel. Your brain runs on glucose. If you starve yourself, you can't focus. If you can't focus, the training fails."
"Good afternoon to you too, Theo," I said sweetly, stabbing a piece of his chicken with my fork. "I missed you too."
Jax sat down opposite us, dumping a tray of tacos onto the table. "Oh, this is going to be fun. Mom and Dad are fighting."
Theo shot Jax a look that could have frozen magma. Jax just grinned and bit into a taco.
"We aren't fighting," Theo grumbled. He turned his body slightly toward me, creating a wall between us and the rest of the room. His knee brushed mine under the table.
The contact was electric.
I froze, fork halfway to my mouth. It was just a knee. A hard, bony knee clad in denim. But after last night, it felt like a caress. It felt like a reminder.
I know what you sound like when you beg.
I looked at him. His face was stoic, but his eyes were burning.
"How is the leg?" I whispered, dropping the banter.
"Fine," he said, too quickly.
"Liar," I murmured. "I saw you limping when you walked in."
"I didn't walk in. I was already here."
"I saw you on the security feed in my head," I quipped. "Did you ice it?"
"Yes."
"Did you wrap it?"
"Yes, Nurse Ratched. I wrapped it." He leaned in closer, dropping his voice so Jax couldn't hear. "I followed the protocol. Because I keep my deals."
His breath ghosted against my temple. The scent of him—soap and that distinct cold-air smell—enveloped me.
"Good," I breathed, unable to look away from his mouth. "Then I’ll keep mine. I… I smiled at the lunch lady."
A tiny, almost imperceptible quirk appeared at the corner of his lip. A micro-smile. It was devastating.
"Progress," he murmured.